


chaos in oneself

by Zesty_Bill_Clinton



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Butch Hannibal Lecter, Butch Will Graham, Butch/Butch, Dancing, F/F, Fade to Black, Fluff, Slow Dancing, some smut, they’re both women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:49:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28371168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zesty_Bill_Clinton/pseuds/Zesty_Bill_Clinton
Summary: Hannibal teaches Will to dance, but it might be the start of something more for both of them.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	chaos in oneself

_“One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star” -Nietzche_

“Do you know how to dance Will?” Dr. Lecter is standing in her kitchen, hands moving deftly as she cleans the knives, she used to cook the meal they just shared. Soft orchestral music plays over Hannibal’s record player, but otherwise the comment comes essentially out of nowhere. “Last time I danced was at a Mardi Gras party in college” you say, and Hannibal simply nods. She sheaths the last knife in its block on the counter and wipes her hands on the bright cotton towel. She seems to roll her eyes at the mention of your college days, and you can’t help but feel similarly. “Have you ever waltzed?” She asks, and you just shake your head. “Come here” she decides, leading you into the center of her atrium where the record player is located. “What’s this about?” you ask, trying to glean the doctor’s thoughts from her firmly set face. “It’s an important skill to have, Will” she says, guiding her hands to your palm and waist. “Don’t worry, I’ll lead” Your head barely comes up to her chest, but she guides your hand to her shoulder, nevertheless. Your eyes focus on the dark tie knotted at her chest, her throat flexing beneath the starched collar. That was one thing you always admired about Dr. Lecter, her fashion choices. You vividly remember your days of being fresh faced at the FBI, trying to feel comfortable in pencil skirts and heels at the interview, wearing ill-fitting blazers for the first few years to seem professional somehow. Being a teacher and special agent had given you enough leeway to wear your tractor supply co flannels into the office, but your failed attempts at femininity still lay dusting in the back of your closet. Hannibal, however, was unapologetic about who she was. Will had never seen the woman out of three-piece Italian suits, expertly tailored to fit her Amazonian frame. The closest to women’s wear Will remembered Hannibal wearing was black Louboutin boots, who’s red soles Alan had commented on when Hannibal was called to Quantico late one Saturday night. “the waltz is a simple four step pattern” she said “just place your feet in succession with mine” You nod, like you understand, but in reality, you end up tripping on Hannibal’s feet for the first few steps. “Just focus on me” Hannibal says, and you look up into the doctor’s eyes for the first time since she placed her hand on your waist. Your joined hands crackle like electricity, and for a moment you forget to focus on the steps. Hannibal’s eyes lift with curiosity and then you’re tripping again. “hmm?” Hannibal asks “you seemed to have it there for a moment” “Stop” you say, although you don’t back away. “What’s the point of this?” “What is the point of anything if not for pleasure?” “This is not pleasurable to me Hannibal” “It’s not?” she asks, and you feel like her eyes drag over every inch of you. “Do you not enjoy being guided, even if not for just a few moments?” The music floats across the back of your mind and you vaguely recognize that you’re once again matching Hannibal’s rhythmic steps, but your mind is more focused on what Hannibal is saying to you. “Jack guides me well enough” you say, and Hannibal frowns at you. “Does he? Or does he merely lead you to pasture and expect you to get home yourself, providing no shelter from the wolves?” “So, I’m a sheep then? Lost in the pasture” “Or perhaps a shepherding canine, protecting the flock yet placing yourself closer and closer to the mouths of wolves” Hannibal leans down as she says this, and you feel her breath hot against your neck as she speaks. “Yet all dogs are descended from wolves, aren’t they? Perhaps you find yourself at home there, out in the pasture so close to your truest nature.” You feel a shiver run down your spine, but you don’t back away from Hannibal’s close stance. You feel glued in your shoes as they move, unconsciously, in time with Hannibal’s. “Where did you learn to dance, Dr. Lecter?” You ask, and she leans back to level her gaze against yours. “All in the proper education of a Countess, Will.” “And yet you sacrifice it all for psychiatry in the land of freedom.” “You say that sarcastically, yet there’s plenty of freedom to be offered here.” “Under the careful gaze of the FBI presumably”. “Apparently” Hannibal’s hand grips yours tighter, and she pulls your hips flush against hers as the music crescendos. Your gut seems to drop like the tide, and you feel clammy all over. Hannibal whispers in your ear “just trust me” as the music shifts into a new refrain. She guides you across the atrium and your feet for a moment seem to become hers. She releases you in a twirl and you’re breathing gulpfuls of wind. She winds you back in, and you’re a fish on a lure. You’re breathless and spinning and you feel like spider webs being spun in the air, like a single breath could knock you over. The music crescendos and then falls, tragically, off a euphonic cliff, diving headfirst into the ocean. Both wet and sharp with rocks, the music dives, and there you are, being dipped low over Hannibal Lecter’s knee. The faint ends of your hair just barely touch the floor as the woman leans over you. “And you said you couldn’t dance” She pulls you up, like a resurrection, and you’re standing there, barely touching. Fingertips millimeters apart, the crackle of energy is telling you, screaming at you, to collide once more. Hannibal Lecter reels you in with her eyes, an invisible thread drawing you closer, closer, until the air between you no longer feels breathable. You want to back away, run away. Leave Hannibal’s house and go feed your dogs. You want to turn away and never look at her chiseled face ever again, never eat her intricate delicacies ever again. But your heart is in your throat, caught and still, like the calm before the storm. You move to speak, to break the moment, to plunge unto the ice and probe beyond this frozen moment, but Hannibal moves first. Hannibal’s hands withdraw from your side and their absence leaves you cold. A temporary cold, until their fire alights your face. She presses her palms against the sides of your face and presses your lips to hers. Like fire and ice and blood all at once, you’re hastily reminded of fishing, ice fishing. Why does it all seem to revolve around that? You focus instead on the moment, the heat. On the fact that you haven’t recoiled, instead doing anything but. You knead her plush lips with your teeth and deepen the kiss. You ask with your mouth to be consumed. No, created. To be made whole by the sheer reality of the other woman’s body. The moment breaks and you pull away, almost embarrassed by the thin line of spit connecting the short distance between your panting mouth and hers. She shifts her hand and runs her fingers through the curls at the back of your head. You want to touch, to make real this moment that seems more like another episode. You don’t know where to put your hands, finally choosing to twist them in the soft wool of her lapels. “Will I-“ Hannibal goes to speak, you shake your head. You kiss her again, and this time you mean it. You press Hannibal Lecter up against the dark stone wall of her house. Your mouths nest together and your hands search, desecrating the fine grey with your ill intentions for it, praying it might be discarded on the floor at a moment’s notice. You pull Hannibal’s tie loose and she unbuttons her collar for you. You press your mouth against her neck, with some intention to mark it, make it yours. Your hands move south, unbuttoning her waistcoat and the rest of her shirt with unconscious hands. Hannibal has her nose pressed into the hair at the crown of your head and you can feel the expansion of her chest as she breaths you in deeply. You open her shirt and see her chest, covered in a simple practical black bra, but threatening to overflow with every breath. You’re surprised by the soft curves of her body, hidden beneath the hard lines of tailored suiting every day. It fills your heart with warmth, and melts the shame you might have felt at the softer spots on your own body, while simultaneously fanning the growing flames burning hotter deep inside your gut. You move your mouth down to the top of Hannibal’s breast, but before you can truly set to work the older woman has whipped you around, pressing you against the wall. Pain echoes through your shoulder while heat pulses between your thighs. “May I?” Hannibal asks, and you groan out a signal of approval. She slips your jacket off and lets it pool around your ankles on the floor. Shortly after it follows your flannel and under shirt. One of Hannibal’s hands explores your chest, palming over what’s trapped beneath your tight sports bra. Her other hand undoes the button of your pants, allowing her palm to cup the heat collecting below your stomach. You let out a short moan and you can feel Hannibal grinning against your neck. “Shall we take this somewhere more appropriate Will?” She asks, and while you wouldn’t be opposed to letting Hannibal Lecter fuck you just a few yards away from her front door, the bedroom does sound like a good idea. Will nodded at Hannibal’s suggestion and Hannibal turned the other woman around, guiding her up the stairs to her decadent bedroom, leaving the rest of their clothes discarded downstairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the fade to black at the end. I don’t usually like writing long explicit scenes, but I sort of wrote myself into a corner with it.


End file.
